Holier Than Thou
by Ella Greggs
Summary: When their shuttle crashed, posing as monks in the local monastery to hide from the law seemed like a good idea. But Haderon is not just any planet and Winterset is not just any abbey. Now Wash and Jayne aren't sure if they're on a stairway to Heaven or a highway to Hell. Post-OIS, Pre-BDM.
1. in which the mighty are brought low

**Disclaimer:** This is a work of fiction based on characters from the _Firefly _'verse created by Joss Whedon. No copyright infringement is intended.

**Rating: T **(for mature themes and foul language)

**Spoilers: **None. This story is set pre-BDM.

* * *

**Chapter 1, in which the mighty are brought low **

_There are the workers of iniquity fallen: they are cast down, and shall not be able to rise _- Psalms 36:12

* * *

"Hold on to something!" Wash yelled above the increasing angry drone of broken engines as the little shuttle careened towards a snowy mountain range. He was struggling with the steering wheel, face a grimace of effort. Must keep the ship level, stay aloft long enough to find a viable landing spot. He frantically scanned the rapidly approaching ground while directing a silent but continuous stream of Chinese curses at Captain Cheapskate and his 'best not bust, then' philosophy towards essential ship's maintenance. Wouldn't have taken much more than a few extra credits to get the right parts. Wash could have installed them in his sleep. Kaylee could have installed them drunk and asleep. But Miser Mal seemed to think Shuttle 2 was just ornamentation, something attached to the hull to provide artistic symmetry when Inara's craft was docked –

"Can ya get 'er down?" Jayne shouted, strapping in behind Wash and snapping him out of his reverie.

"Trying," Wash ground out through gritted teeth. And now some _very _terra firma was rushing towards them. Couldn't crash land in a warm, pretty place, like a wheat field, or a meadow with gently rolling hills, oh no, had to be a jagged, icy vertical surface! An image of Zoë stretched out beneath him, naked and satisfied, rushed unbidden to his mind. Maybe laying in a wheat field...? For God's sake, not the time, Washburne! He pushed the fantasy roughly aside and resumed the hunt for a safe landing spot, all this time his fingers not missing a beat in their elaborate but ineffective dance over buttons and switches that his conscious mind just couldn't accept were not working properly.

"There!" he cried triumphantly. It was an awfully shallow ledge, and dangerously uneven. Not quite wide enough to accommodate the shuttle, he knew, but at this point they were too close to the earth to see much else in the window.

The shuttle shuddered and lurched and stopped abruptly with a nauseating crunch. The 'verse disappeared into white at the moment of impact. When it returned, Wash did a quick systems check - two arms, two legs, one head. All properly configured and no leaks apparent. Respiration was a go. He couldn't help but be a little impressed with his own self. That landing was one for the history books. Well, maybe only one for the comic books. But they were down and not dead, which two states of being met all minimum requirements. Through the spider web of windshield cracks, he could see the front of the shuttle was badly crushed, and a quick swivel in the pilot's chair confirmed that its starboard flank hadn't fared much better. As he stood, the ship tilted sideways sharply, and Wash instinctively leaned to the opposite side. He knew immediately.

"Jayne! Jayne, wake up!" Taking his life into his hands (he'd learned the hard way not to startle Zoë from sleep), Wash shook the burly merc, who appeared to have passed out. Jayne reluctantly opened one suspicious eye. "We gotta go. This ledge is too narrow and the ship could pitch off any minute. Careful!" He grabbed Jayne's arm to steady him as he rose, a move that earned Wash a murderous glare. He quickly withdrew his hand. "Careful," he said again, forcing himself to sound calmer this time and indicating with gestures that Jayne should move slowly.

Between the two of them, they had just enough strength to muscle open the badly dented hatch sufficiently to slip out onto the narrow space between the shuttle and the rock face. On the way out, neither man thought to take what the other considered essential. Wash grabbed the radio and Jayne grabbed the guns. Although there had been no discussion, they seemed to agree that the cargo would have to fend for itself. For its part, the cargo was under the impression it had all the time in the world, and so was still smugly ensconced in the shuttle's belly when the outer ledge gave way and the little ship made the acquaintance of some ill-intentioned rocks below. They shed no tears for the cargo. Served it right for getting them into this mess. But the shuttle was a dear friend and would be sorely missed.

* * *

Jayne believed somethin' worth doin' was worth doin' right. When _he _swore at Mal, he did it out loud an' in technicolor. "That _ben tian sheng de yi dui rou_ son of a _fei-fei de pi yan_ soaked in _chou ma-niao_!" That and more spewed from his mouth as he surveyed the damage. "He picks a fine time ta get all twitchy an' spooked. Should be him stuck stranded an' freezin', 'stead o' me."

The short trek down the mountain to where the shuttle now lay on its side, smashed and useless, had helped keep them a little warm, but now both men were shivering, hands and faces turning red and prickly in the sharp, raw air. Jayne was slightly better off in his autumn-weight jacket (chosen because extra ammo required extra pockets) than Wash in his red canvas flight suit (picked to compliment his over-shirt's crimson sunset palm motif), but clearly finding shelter had to be next on the agenda.

"Well," said Wash, carefully climbing through the broken windshield to pull out what supplies he could reach, "the Doc said the concussion was pretty severe."

Jayne snorted with contempt as he took the items Wash passed him. "Wouldn't'a had no concussion if he hadn't'a been blind drunk an' fallen off the catwalk." Jayne could tell this was new information to Wash, because the pilot stopped in mid-pass. "Zoë didn't say nothin' ta ya?" Wash gave a bewildered head shake that caused Jayne equal puzzlement. Even though he was daily witness to it, Jayne was nevertheless always surprised just how thoroughly Zoë dominated her little husband. Must be that was the attraction, 'cause it sure was mystifin' otherwise.

"This here's Haderon," he said expectantly. Wash nodded, but not with any understanding. He'd stopped moving and his teeth had started chattering quietly amongst themselves. "Some folks calls it 'Hades on Ice', the planet where Hell freezes over." Ain't much of a joke, now we's amidst it, Jayne noted grimly, beginning to stamp his feet to maintain circulation. Still not ringin' any alarm bells, huh? Okay then, ain't my fault she didn't tell him. "The way I hear'd it, they was in a prison camp here after the war. An' Mal took all kinds o' punishment 'fore they was sprung. When he found out this was our pick up location, he hit the bottle an' then he hit the stairs, one by one 'til they run out. Zoë and Doc figured she'd better stay on the ship, else he'd try gettin' all upright an' captainy when she's gone and cause hisself some first class brain damage. Not that there'd be any diff-"

"And Zoë?" Wash demanded apprehensively, the job, the shuttle, the cold, everything else forgotten. "What did you hear about what happened to her?"

Jayne decided under the circumstances to ignore his disrespectful tone. "Nothin'. I only know this much on account o' eavesdroppin' on 'em while they was movin' Mal." That was the gorram truth, but even if he did know somethin' 'bout Zoë, weren't no way he would pass it on ta Wash right now. They had pitiful few resources t'hand, so couldn't afford gettin' their only gadget man's li'l techie head too messed up ta be useful. Not 'til they was off this frozen rock, an' then Wash could grow a pair an' confront Zoë hisself if he liked. Tough as she was, the woman musta been all kinds o' relieved when Mal got his li'l boo-boo, knowin' it meant neither one was goin' down ta Hades.

Wash knew the Tower of Id had a near-perfect poker face (being shameless and amoral had many advantages in the Black), but decided he wasn't wearing it now. Yes, she told the occasional war story – wacky fun about lethal fruit and mustache pranks and lots of fancy hardware going boom. But about what happened right after the war Zoë never spoke. Time stopped in Serenity Valley and started up again when Mal bought the Firefly ten months later. She'd led him to believe they knocked around during those months, picking up odd jobs, saving money and figuring out what to do next. Or, Wash realized, maybe he'd led himself to believe that, while she neither confirmed nor denied.

Frog-humping sonofabitch, that explained a lot! Her general bad mood these past few days (Mal's, too, come to that), the hungry, desperate sex they'd been having, and why this morning she'd pulled rank to stay _on _the ship, even though Simon had doped Mal so high he was clearly gonna be out for hours. Between the prospect of Jayne's delightful company and remembering what happened last time he took her place on a mission, Wash had most definitely not wanted to go. At least, not without a reason more persuasive than "Because I'm in command and I say so." But that was the gist of what she offered, and so they argued and now, now it turns out... _Ta ma de_! He _hated _when she decided for the both of them what he needed to be protected from! After nearly five years of marriage, you'd think she'd have more faith in him.

Jayne absentmindedly sniffed the air and frowned. Wind's changed. An' pickin' up speed. "Whatever we got's gonna have ta do, Wash. Storm's brewin'. Ya can sulk on the way."

* * *

"So you're both okay and the cargo's salvageable?" Zoë on the radio, all business, her voice cool and efficient. "What about the shuttle?"

"It's pretty banged up, but the hull's not actually breeched. A few weeks of intensive Kaylee TLC and it should be space-worthy again."

"Any way you can fix it up enough to fly out of there now?"

"Not with what I have down here," replied Wash suspiciously, taking a dislike to where this conversation was headed. "Why? You're not planning to pick us up?"

"Well, there's a problem with that." From the far corner of the cave they had commandeered, Jayne hugged his jacket closer and let out a disgusted moan. 'Course they's a problem. They's always a gorram problem! Hard ta conceive a ship so ill-favored.

"Our contact in the city was pinched right after he handed the goods off to you," Zoë continued, "and he spilled his guts. The local authorities know everything – your names, what ship you're with, where the goods are headed. Everything. It's too risky to fly _Serenity _in there 'cause they're watching for us. Have to wait 'til Inara gets back and use her shuttle. It's small enough, maybe we can slip through."

"But she ain't gonna be back fer near a week!" Jayne roared over Wash's shoulder. "Wash ain't gonna last a week, Zoë."

Wash and Zoë spoke as one. "And why is that?"

"'Cause I can't hardly stand 'im now, an' I swear, two more days o' his yap flappin' 's gonna send me over the edge."

Make like it's a joke. Give a little laugh, just enough to be convincing but not enough to provoke a bullet. Don't worry about the trembling – you can blame that on the cold. In truth, Wash was genuinely uneasy. He knew that behind Jayne's bluster was a remorseless killer, a man who put self before sentiment and who did not find him the least bit funny or charming. Or useful, in this particular situation, which called for wilderness survival skills that Wash, having grown up in an industrial city and lived his whole life among machines, didn't have. He wondered if the threat of Zoë and Mal's wrath would be enough to deter Washward violence for seven whole days of Jayne's World. Probably not so much...

"Perhaps I can offer a solution." Shepherd Book's honey velvet voice floated through the receiver. "Winterset Abbey is about a day's journey down the mountain from you. I have a friend there, William Archer. Brother William. He owes me a favor and he's a good man besides. I'm sure he'll help you lay low there once I explain the situation."

"Us, pretend to be monks? For a week?"

"No ruttin' way! Ain't doin' nothin' that involves shavin' my head or alterin' my man-parts."

The sound of Book's good-natured laughter filled the small cave. "Not necessary, I assure you. It's not _that_ kind of Order. You should use aliases, though. The authorities are looking for Washburne and Cobb, and I'm afraid Brother 'Jayne' would be a bit conspicuous in any case."

"More conspicuous than a 6'4" illiterate holy man who spits, cusses, scratches himself with gusto and bench presses 360?"

"You have a point," Book conceded.

"Well," Wash shrugged to shake off the chill and embrace the inevitable, "I can go by Robert. It's my middle name. There's a funny story behind that, remind me to tell you sometime. And Jayne..."

"If I can't have my front name, ain't using what comes after."

"Which is...?"

"mumblemumble."

"Um, didn't quite catch that."

Erupting volcanos evinced more calm. "Marion, okay! Name's Marion!"

There was a moment of silence for Jayne's shredded dignity. And then:

"Your mother was that desperate for a girl?"

"Ya best shut yer mouth 'bout my ma, _Hoban Robert_, else we might see some man-parts alterin' after all. An' I'm tellin' ya right now ain't gonna be no Brother Marion."

"Use Vincent," offered Book. "It's _my_ middle name. Means 'conqueror' in Latin."

Jayne nodded at the transmitter. He didn't hold with book lernin' in gen'ral, but Moonbrain said Mal meant 'bad' in Latin, an' here he was gonna be a conqueror, so he reckoned Latin was okay then. Latin an' him saw eye-ta-eye. "Fine," he huffed impatiently. "'s gettin' dark. I'm gonna try findin' us somethin' ta burn." He shot Wash a nasty look that seemed to say, _somethin' else, fer the moment_.

"Thanks, Shepherd," said Wash into the radio as Jayne exited. "I think you just saved my life."

"Well, saving is my business. Now you two head down the mountain in the morning. I'll wave Brother William and arrange a rendezvous point outside the abbey. Good luck, _Brother Robert_."

"Thanks," said Wash. "It's gonna be interesting. Over and – "

"Wash?" Zoë's voice was back, tinged with a worry that could only mean she was alone. Book must have gone, discreet as ever, to allow the couple a private moment.

Tightness gripped his chest. "Honey, I'm so sorry for what I said. If I had known about Haderon – "

"No, baby. We're not gonna do it like this." He could hear it through the transmitter – Zoë struggling to determine just how much emotion she could safely unleash, aware that he prized her vulnerability above her strength but needing to maintain the control that was so important to her. Some uneven combination of the acting captain and the yearning wife spoke next. "You're gonna come back, _safe. _That's an order. And then," her voice dropped so low, he could hardly hear the quaver in it, "I'll tell you everything." Wash was in anguish, knowing what it cost her to say those words, open that door, even for him. And more than a little disquieted, knowing that she meant them. "Should have told you before, but..." Her voice trailed off. "But I ain't saying nothin' to a frozen husband," she rallied after a moment, equilibrium restored through sheer force of will. "So you stay close to Jayne and follow his lead. He knows how to make do out there."

"Yes, dear. Whatever you say, dear. I mean, whatever he says, dear. As long as he keeps his popsicle to himself." He tried to sound light and playful. And confident. He was keenly aware that she already thought him plenty vulnerable.

"Don't worry, Wash. Jayne knows you come back less than mint and Vera's got a date with the airlock. And there won't be no amnesty for his popsicle, neither."

Banter, banter was good. Maybe there was even a little grin in her voice. His breathing eased, but the shivering resumed, triggering an internal klaxon that his body temperature had dropped too low and it was time to move around again. He ignored it and they shared the silence for another minute. And then another.

At last Wash gave a melancholy sigh and watched it linger, white and misty in the air. Mustn't let the transmitter battery run down. "Some anniversary, huh?"

"My man's off to become a monk. Gives a whole new meaning to 'for better or for worse'."

"We don't salvage some of this cargo, there'll be a whole new meaning to 'for richer or for poorer', too. See you in a week, _bao bei_. I love you."

He signed off, now feeling a warmth against which the outside cold was powerless. Mal and the others could have her damn stoicism. That smile – he could imagine he heard it and he would hold on to that.

_End chapter 1._

* * *

**Author's Notes: **So last time it was _Firefly _meets Shakespeare. This time, it's _Firefly _meets the Bible. What can I say - if you're going to steal, steal big. For the most part, I'll be drawing on Catholic monastic practices to describe life at Winterset Abbey, with the understanding that they might be a bit different 500 years into the future and transplanted to another 'verse. I'm also experimenting with Jayne-think, and particularly interested to hear what people think of my efforts. Those who are curious about Wash and Jayne's middle names can find more information in my double drabble **Stuck in the Middle**, which you should read anyway because it's short and "ruttin' hilarious" (at least, according to my friends). Reviews are love and they're free, too! So please partake early and often of that free love as the stories goes along.

Concerning the story title, the quote is from **Isaiah 65**, which begins "_I am sought of them that asked not for me; I am found of them that sought me not...a people that provoketh me to anger continually...which say, Stand by thyself, come not near me, for I am holier than thou_." Food for thought as our tale progresses...

* * *

Chinese Translations

_Ben tian sheng de yi dui rou_ – stupid inbred sack of meat

_fei-fei de pi yan_ – baboon's ass-crack

_chou ma-niao_ – stinking horse urine

_Ta ma de – _dammit!

_bao bei_ – sweetheart


	2. in which obligations weigh heavy

**Chapter 2, in which obligations weigh heavy on the obliged**

_And I will bring the blind by a way that they knew not; I will __lead __them in paths that they have not known: I will make darkness light before them, and crooked things straight. These things will I do unto them, and not forsake them_ – Isaiah 42:16

* * *

Jayne paced the unlit cave like a caged animal. Night'd fallen an' there weren't a damn thing he could do 'bout it. Worse still, he couldn't find the least li'l thing ta burn under all that snow an' ice. Stooping to avoid cracking his head on the uneven ceiling, he turned at the far wall and started striding back towards the cave entrance. In the dimness, he stumbled over something that went "hmph!" Yeah, an' that was an added joy – the lump o' pilot he had ta keep alive else Zoë take ta him with that Winchester Randall like she done Tracey. An' Mal, Mal'd space him jus' ta please Zoë. Ain't no one on that ship shows him the proper respect, 'cept maybe the Shepherd. Jayne Marion Vincent Cobb - didn't sound half bad. Maybe jus' Jayne Vincent Cobb (with apologies ta Ma). Or J.M. Vincent Cobb, Esquire. He grinned in the darkness. An' why not? He was jus' as good as any man, better in a lotta ways. In the feeble light, Jayne could make out the general figure of Wash sitting on the cold ground, shaking involuntarily. Yep, Exhibit A on who was the better man. But still he had obligations.

"Wash!" he barked angrily. "Hoped it wouldn't come ta this, but I'm gonna hug ya. No help fer it. Gotta maximize our body heat."

"Uh, _no_!" Blanching, Wash scooted away a few feet as Jayne bent towards him, a grim, determined look on his face and his arms opened wide. "I really think we should consider the up-close and personal approach only as a last resort. There must be something else we can do. Burn the supplies, maybe? I mean, I'm flattered," he simpered, now trying to repel Jayne with sarcasm. "What man wouldn't be? You're a fine specimen of ...of...specimens. But, you know, I'm married. License, wedding vows. Ring." He held up his left hand and wiggled his fingers to show the proof positive. "And Zoë can be the jealous type..."

"Aw, quit bellyachin'," Jayne growled impatiently. "Ya ain't my idea of a dream date, neither, but I ain't fixin' ta die o' hypochondria – "

"Hypothermia."

"– tonight," Jayne barreled on. It vaguely registered that his companion had interrupted, but Jayne didn't bother to pay attention. He gen'rally took as li'l notice as possible of the _fei hua _comin' from that mouth. "An' I sure as _go se_ ain't takin' the blame fer yer pathetic state. Now man-up and lay still so I can hug ya proper."

Reluctantly, Wash obeyed. In more ways than one, there really was no choice. He curled on his side and squeezed his eyes tightly shut, now trying to coax those images of his beautiful, loving wife - the ones he'd been so rude to during the crash - back into his head. The moment Jayne made contact, Wash clenched his whole body, as if bracing for a blow. And then relaxed. Slightly. Jayne reeked of sweat and gun oil, and his loose embrace was about as comforting as the lethal hug of a grizzly bear, but there was no denying he was warm. After a time, the trembling abated to a moderate overall tremor, which eventually confined itself to Wash's lips and hands. He couldn't understand it – why wasn't Sasquatch shaking, too? Was solid muscle so much more cold-resistant than semi-muscle? Wash tucked his hands into his armpits, while Jayne shifted to pillow his head in the crook of one arm and spooned closer into Wash's back.

After some mighty concentration, Zoë appeared. But she was fully dressed, which was disappointing, although probably for the best – Jayne was right there next to him, after all. Clothed Zoë looked unhappy. _"Come back safe and I'll tell you everything," _she said. Good, because he wanted to know. Sort of. Well, no, not really. Not as such. But... well... _yes_, but only because she shouldn't keep important things from him. For better or for worse. Trouble was, Zoë was pretty damn courageous about facing unpleasantness (the bravest person he'd ever known), and it wasn't like Mal to hide in a bottle, either. So whatever happened on Haderon must have been extra terrible. So much so that Wash had to be ruthless in keeping Speculation grounded, which meant that Imagination couldn't lift off, either (although it did manage to start the pre-launch sequence a couple of times). But now that _she _knew _he _knew _something_ had happened, she _had_ to tell him. So it was like he was forcing her, even though he wasn't. _Tzao gao_! Her feeling backed into a corner was the last thing they needed. There was already strain between them over the maybe baby, and –

"Hey, Wash," Jayne said over his shoulder, "ya thinkin' of yer wife?"

"Uh, yeah," Wash replied, surprised Jayne would realize that, and even more surprised his breath wasn't as noxious as Wash had expected.

Jayne's voice dripped with lechery. "Me, too."

"Well, she's not taking off a stitch while _you're _here, so just forget about that right now!" Wash snapped. He grumbled something Jayne couldn't hear and settled in for what he knew would be an uneasy sleep.

Huh? _Fong luh _pilot! Worse 'n talkin' ta Moonbrain. He better get his own bunk at the abbey, or there'd be trouble, Winchester Randall or no.

* * *

The 'monk' climbing up the hill towards the rendezvous point looked all of sixteen years old. Everything about him was brown – hair, skin, robe, over-wrap, rucksack, boots, and, when he got closer, sure enough, eyes. Wash guessed that under the heavy layers of wool cassock was a gangly mess of knees and elbows and frustrated hormones.

Jayne leveled his pistol 'Margaret' at the target, and took just a mite of wicked pleasure in the stunned reaction she elicited. (Vera had been left behind on _Serenity_, as this was supposed to be one of those ever-illusive 'milk runs'. Although she had first place in his heart, Vera knew it was an open relationship and never pouted when Jayne saw fit to keep company with the others.) "That's far 'nuf," he called when the boy was about 30 meters away.

The brown figure slowly raised his hands to shoulder level, bewildered. "Mr... Mr. Wash? Mr. Cobb?" There was an uncertain squeak in his voice. Wash liked him immediately. "I'm Brother Edwin. I mean, Edwin Archer. My uncle William sent me to guide you to the monastery. He's waiting there for you."

Jayne cocked the hammer and took aim. "Sorry, kid. That weren't the plan."

"Wait! He's not...um... it's just... it's so cold, you see. And the climb," he protested earnestly. "And he has to prepare your way with Prior Walter. But he told me all about you. You're in trouble with the law. A misunderstanding," he added hastily off Jayne's dark scowl. "Um, please don't shoot! I owe Shepherd Book everything. I would never betray him. Or his friends." Finding Jayne and Margaret apparently unreceptive, Brother Edwin threw his pleading look to Wash.

Wash wasn't sure what his contribution to the situation should be. He was usually on the ship, on the bridge, biting his nails, fiddling with his dinosaurs and fretting while Mal and Jayne and Zoë did the whole meet and greet and keep-your-hands-where-I-can-see-them routine. When guests came aboard _Serenity_, it was generally pretty clear which side they were on based on whether the bullets were flying towards or away from his head. Yeah, he'd been, they'd _all_ been fooled before. But this kid sure _seemed_ harmless enough.

Wash decided to be an optimist. "Well, that's good enough for the parts of me that still have feeling!" he cried cheerfully, clapping his hands together in hopes of closing the sub-zero portion of the conversation. "Let's go someplace warm and swap Book stories! Maybe dish the monastic dirt over coffee?"

Gorram pilot! Ain't got the sense God gave a beetle.

"Make useful an' check 'im first," Jayne grunted irritably. He watched with contempt as Wash mucked up the exercise. But Jayne already knew by his stance that the boy weren't armed. At least he didn't seem simple in the head, like some. Jus' one last test needed doin', see what kinda backbone their new protector's got. "Ya don't look old 'nuf ta be shavin', let alone preachin'."

"I'm nineteen!" Brother Edwin insisted, unconsciously dropping his hands as he puffed out his chest with wounded man-child pride.

Good. Ain't so afraid o' the gun he won't stick up fer hisself, Jayne noted approvingly. He gave an amused, lopsided grin and holstered Margaret. Matty'd prob'ly react the exact same way. Although Jayne supposed his youngest brother, bein' a Cobb, 'd manage ta look a sight more intimidatin' than this one.

"Okay, Eddie. From here on, he's Robert. Ya can call me Vincent. Means 'conqueror' in Lain."

* * *

Jayne was dressed in a shapeless brown robe that was slightly too small, looking for all the 'verse like a hit man dressed in a shapeless brown robe that was slightly too small. Brother Edwin fussing nervously over his outfit, helping him struggle into the cassock and over-wrap, adjusting the belt and straightening the collar, reaching up hesitantly to settle the cowl just so on the hulking merc's head, all the while apologizing to 'Brother Vincent' that he hadn't thought to bring the extra extra large size. Jayne gloried in being the object of such care. Wash seemed up to the challenge of dressing himself, and threw the drab layers of heavy cotton and wool over his own colorful ensemble with swift gratitude.

There was a very short discussion about what to do with the weapons. Brother Edwin started it by saying he supposed Jayne could bring one gun well hidden, and Jayne finished it by tucking the rifle (Rose), the shotgun (Prudence) and the long hunting knife (Arabella) under his robe, stuffing Margaret into his outer pocket and starting off. The switchblade sisters Ginnylee and Joanne were also coming, nestled one in each boot. Jayne liked to make all the women in his life feel wanted.

As they trudged down the mountain, Brother Edwin tried to familiarize them with the rules and routine of the abbey. Wash did his best to follow along, while Jayne scanned the barren white landscape for signs of pursuit.

"We rise at 5 AM for Lauds. Prime is at 6. That's followed by breakfast and personal tasks, and then Terce at 9. After that, we tend to the abbey chores. My uncle and I work in the greenhouse complex. We'll ask Prior Walter to assign you there. Sext is at –"

Wash stopped cold and furrowed his brow in disbelief. He couldn't possibly have heard that right. Jayne, suddenly all attention, kept going, nearly knocked Wash off his feet.

"Daily sexin'? I know'd Book was lyin' with that 'I direct my energy elsewhere' _go se_!"

Brother Edwin's face turned beet red. "Um, no…uh…Sex**T**…with a 'T'," he stammered. "It's the mid-day prayer. It's not…I mean, there's no …we, uh, don't…"

"It's alright, Eddie." Wash patted the flustered young monk on the back to calm him. "We get the picture."

"Yeah, an' it ain't nothin' but grim. So the mornin' 's all prayin' and chores. When's lunch, then?"

Brother Edwin hung his head mournfully. His voice was barely audible. "After Sext."

Several minutes passed before Wash could stop laughing.

* * *

When they were about 100 meters from the abbey gates, Brother Edwin looked them over once more and frowned. He'd missed something.

"I'm afraid you'll have to take off your wedding ring, Brother Robert," he said apologetically. Wash blinked uncomprehendingly at him. "I'm sorry. It's not just the obvious incongruity. The Order forbids personal adornments, except those with a religious purpose, of course."

Wash stared at the gold band on his finger and bit his lip uncertainly. Zoë and he couldn't afford gold (or much of anything else) at the time, and then a few months and a few jobs after the wedding, when they might have been able to scrape together the coin, Zoë had insisted she didn't want a ring. Said it was overkill after the betrothal necklace he'd already given her, and anyway punching a man while wearing a ring could actually fracture the finger bone. Ah, Zoë! Always whispering those sweet little nothings! So he'd allowed himself to be talked out of exchanging rings. But she could see it was important to him, so for their first anniversary, after the cost of fuel and parts and ammo had been subtracted from her cut, she bought him the nicest one she could manage on 10 percent of what passed for payment on _Serenity_. Such a small, plain thing to carry the burden of symbolizing eternal devotion. He'd never taken it off. Not even once, although it turned out Zoë had been right about the punching part.

"It's just…" He rubbed his fingertips back and forth defensively over the ring, his only tangible link to the woman who was his home. "Our anniversary is today. We were supposed to have dinner together, just us. With real food – the kind with actual ingredients. And some dessert not made of the same thing we had for dinner. Followed by, um..." Not wanting to scandalize the sheltered youth, Wash gave Jayne a meaningful look and settled on "... unwrapping _presents_. But no! No! Instead, I'm _here – _Hades on Ice. And she's up there..." with _Mal_ "...alone." He looked down at his hands. Sometime during his speech they had reached their own decision and were clasping together, fingers interlaced to protect the tiny gold band.

Jayne shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other. Wash supposed his open display of unmanly sentiment disgusted the macho mercenary. But Jayne put a meaty hand on his shoulder, and gave it a light, almost sympathetic shove that sent him back a step. "He ain't sayin' ya got ta throw it away, little man," Jayne said gruffly. "jus' put it outta sight somewhere is all."

And so shortly thereafter, the two newest holy pilgrims to Winterset Abbey moved through the gates and onto consecrated ground, passing temporarily beyond the reach of the enemies who compassed them.

_End chapter 2._

* * *

Chinese translations:

_fei hua_ = nonsense

_go se _= dog crap

_tzao gao! =_ damn!

_fong luh _= crazy, loopy


	3. in which appearances fail to deceive

**Chapter 3, in which appearances fail to deceive**

_Be merciful unto me, O God, be merciful unto me: for my soul trusteth in thee: yea, in the shadow of thy wings will I make my refuge, until these calamities be overpast_ – Psalm 57:1

* * *

"No one saw us, Uncle," Brother Edwin assured him as he ushered Wash and Jayne into the small, austere cell that was Brother William's living quarters. "I'd better go find Brother Vincent a larger robe so he'll be presentable for his interview." Without waiting for a response, Edwin hurried off, relieved to have his uncle, to whom he deferred in all things, take charge.

Wash and Jayne spent barely a second taking in the plain, whitewashed stone walls, humble desk and simple wooden cross hanging over the bed. The cold, though less biting, was still pervasive. Wash felt a pang for Eddie, growing up in this stern and cheerless world. So different from his own childhood, which had been filled with color and laughter and dreams of flight.

"Interview?" He asked politely once introductions had been exchanged.

"Normally the Abbot interviews all pilgrims and new brethren. But fortunately he's away this week so you'll meet with his deputy Prior Walter. Abbot Jerome is somewhat, um, political," Brother William explained, anticipating Wash's question. "An influential man in town, friendly with the sheriff and the county administrator. He's sure to be up on the news of your, er, mishap in the capital. But the Prior rarely leaves the monastery and he seems to have no interest in what goes on beyond these walls, so I think we're safe."

Wash liked how he said "we're safe." Another Archer to trust. "I've told him you are men who have newly embraced the Faith, after years of rough and impious living." Jayne smirked. That about summed it up. An' he could tell Brother Will knew it. "And you've undertaken a pilgrimage to some of the older abbeys to cement your commitment to the Word," Brother Will went on. "Shepherd Book thought this would explain why you don't know as much as a genuine believer. You're not, are you, either of you," Brother William asked cautiously, "believers?" There was just the faintest trace of a tiny mustard seed of hope in his voice.

Wash shook his head, noticing for the first time how stiff and alien, almost noose-like, the collar felt around his neck. "Sorry to disappoint, Brother, but no. We're just your garden variety unrepentant sinners. Although I shouldn't claim too much credit. I'm really just an amateur transgressor compared to Jayne here – I mean, Brother Vincent."

Jayne was unphased. Jus' more _luan yu _ta ignore. "My ma took us ta services sometimes when I was a kid," he volunteered, removing the small arsenal under his robe and laying each piece lovingly on the narrow cot. "Remember some good naps bein' had in church, but that's about it."

Wash sighed at the firepower. Jayne without weapons was like the Black without stars. "Don't worry, Brother Will," he hastened to assure their benefactor, who shrank away from the vague air of menace now radiating off his bed. "Luckily we're both champion liars. You just tell us what to say and we'll put on a good show for the Prior."

Brother Will tore his eyes from the guns and knives and fixed Jayne with a determined look. "We'll hide those," he said in a voice that brokered no dissent. Jayne looked the darker man over once more. Jus' like the nephew, got more ta him 'n meets the eye. Seems all meek an' mild, but in the end willin' ta stand his ground. Jayne suspected many a man had misunderestimated how far they could push Brother Will 'fore he pushed back.

* * *

An hour later, despite the massive ache in his head, Jayne still couldn't bring hisself ta punch Brother Will inta quietin'. Weren't 'cause he was near as old as Book. Weren't 'cause he was a man o' holy convictions, 'though even Jayne could tell that he was. Weren't that the owlish li'l monk didn't make Jayne feel all kinds o' stupid ignorant with all them unfamiliar words like _trans-substitution _[transubstantiation] an' _nice 'n' greed _[Nicene Creed] an' _catacomb _[catechism].***** But after watchin' Brother Will sweat through tryin' ta cram a year's worth o' churchin' an' cover story inta their brains, Jayne began ta regard him like some mythical creature. He hardly believed anyone in the 'verse'd go out on a limb fer total strangers with no talk o' money changin' hands, and here he'd met two people in one day. Well, they's related, so that must account fer it. That, or Book knew somethin' apocalyptic damagin' on the Archer fam'ly, but somehow Jayne doubted that was the reason.

"So let's review, brothers," Brother William went on, raising his chestnut hands as though to conduct an orchestra. "The three vows of the Order are...?"

"Poverty, chastity, obedience," Wash and Jayne repeated dutifully in unison, the only conviction in their voices coming from a shared and strongly held belief in the wrongheadedness of monastic priorities.

"And the patron saint of Winterset Abbey is...?"

Jayne scowled with the effort of thought. The lesson continued.

When it was time, Brother William removed his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose for a few seconds.

"Very good," he tried to sound encouraging. "Now when you meet the Prior, say as little as possible. Brother Xi will also be there. He's the Abbot's eyes and ears. Try not to lie more than absolutely necessary. The Prior is a very, um," he hesitated, searching for just the right descriptor, "...insightful man."

* * *

By the time they had traversed the abbey's main complex, Wash felt pretty confident saying the Vow of Poverty was in full force. No luxuries here. Just a gray and white world of somber stone and bare, echoing cloisters. He guessed from the preponderance of dour faces they passed that the Vow of Chastity was holding its own, too, although 100 percent success anywhere was hard to conceive. But just a few minutes into the interview, Wash was ready to swear on a stack of Holy Bibles that the Vow of Obedience was alive and well and epicentered in Prior Walter's study.

He didn't look like much, sitting at the unadorned, functional desk. An unprepossessing man, a bit heavy-set, dirty blonde hair, dark intelligent eyes. Ordinary in every outward way, except when he spoke. His voice was firm, incontestable, at ease with command. For Wash, something about the priest was familiar and unsettling.

"Brother William has suggested that you work with him in the greenhouses," the Prior was saying. "This is acceptable for you, Brother Robert, if you have no objections. But I suspect," he continued, giving Jayne an efficient once-over glance, "that Brother Vincent has some talent as an outdoors man. Is this so?" Jayne nodded, inwardly pleased that the physique he worked so hard to maintain could still be appreciated under the bilious robe. "Perhaps you brought some weapons with you... for hunting?"

Jayne spotted a flicker of ...something... in Prior Walter's eyes, but it was gone in an instant. He gave another deferential nod.

"If you are willing, Brother, it would be a great service to the whole community if you use your skills to enrich our stores during your stay. You may not venture beyond the gates without my permission, no one may, but there should be game enough on the monastery grounds to keep you busy. Just be careful not to shoot any of the brethren. Most of them are old and tough and would make terrible eating."

It was that comment, more than the similarities in their age or bearing, that clinched it for Wash. Mal. The Prior reminded him of Mal. An autocrat with a quip for every occasion. But the Prior didn't radiate impatience. His presence was more benign, soothing and Bookish. A Mal-Book hybrid, then. A Mook. Wash got along fine with _Serenity_'s resident shepherd, so he was fully prepared to like at least half of Prior Walter. But then he heard:

"You may both visit the Alliance camp. You're not obliged to, of course, but most people find it edifying."

The muscles in Wash's face went slack. He swallowed a gasp before it could escape. "You mean it's here? As in _here _here?"

"Why, yes," replied Prior Walter, surprised. "About ten kilometers away. You didn't know? Aside from Winterset itself, the prison camp museum is one of the few sites in this remote corner of Hades on Ice." Wash was surprised to hear a man of God use Haderon's blasphemous moniker. "I was under the impression it had gained a certain notoriety since the war," the priest continued, slightly puzzled. "It _was _the largest Alliance POW facility. And had the highest death count. As far as I know, it's the only museum of its kind in the galaxy. Some travel from far off worlds just to see it. Take Brother Geoffrey with you as a guide."

"Um, I think I'd ... we'd rather go by ourselves, Father. If we go," Wash managed to say hoarsely. He suddenly felt a bit queasy.

"As you wish. But showing people the camp is part of Brother Geoffrey's penance, so you'd be doing the Lord's work to include him."

"His penance?" The words seemed to come from very far away. Which is where Wash now wished he was. Please, please keep your face neutral, Washburne. Just a few more minutes…

"Yes," the priest repeated ever-patiently, a mix of sadness and sympathy in his voice. "He was a guard there. And it weighs heavy on his soul, what went on there. Take him with you," he said again, a gentle nudge in his voice, "and he'll tell you his story. He must tell it to as many people as possible, to honor the dead, to bear witness, to earn God's forgiveness. And_Deo adiuvante _to forgive himself one day, I hope and pray."

_Just a few more minutes..._

"We'll think on it, Father, once we's settled in," Jayne cut in quickly, sliding next to Wash and taking his arm. Not understanding, Wash reflexively moved to pull away. Now annoyed, Jayne tightened his grip to the brink of bruising and put his other hand firmly on the pilot's shoulder. Don't care what he thinks, gorramit! Got ta steady 'im. "Could we be excused now, Father? The journey here was rough an' Brother Robert's jus' worn out." Even Wash, now deep in his own thoughts, couldn't miss the hushed, respectful tone Jayne used, quite unlike his normal speaking voice. "Could do with some vittles, if it ain't against the rules ta eat before sex. I mean, Sex**T**." Jayne bit down as hard as he could on the 'T'.

"Well it is," the Prior replied with an amused smile, "but I completely understand. Brother William, please take Brother Vincent and Brother Robert to the kitchen, and then show them to their cells." The smile morphed into an expectation. "Along the way, you can familiarize them with the daily schedule and rules of conduct." Brother William was about to speak. "And yes," the Prior continued, the smile resuming its warmth, "Brother Edwin may divert from his normal duties to help them settle in this afternoon."

After they had gone, Brother Xi, the Abbot's secretary, carefully closed the door.

"They're hiding something, Father. They're not what they claim to be."

"I know," said Prior Walter placidly, now smoothing some papers on his desk.

"Did you see Brother Robert's face when you mentioned the museum?" For some reason, Brother Xi never called it the camp. "And Brother Vincent looks like a … a … some sort of criminal element. Why in Heaven's name did you let him keep his weapons, Father?"

"By all means, Brother," the Prior replied dryly, "if you think you can disarm such a man, please go ahead."

"They can't stay here, Father," Brother Xi insisted. "It will bring trouble to the abbey. When Abbot Jerome returns – "

"We are _not_ turning away people who seek our help." The Prior's mild expression hadn't changed, but a flinty undertone crept into his voice. For the briefest moment, a peculiar glint, the same one Jayne had spotted earlier, appeared in his eyes. And then it was gone, as was the hard edge to his words. "Remember, Brother, _venite ad me omnes qui laboratis et onerati estis et ego reficiam vos_. But you're right to be cautious. Get on the cortex and check for bulletins. Convey nothing to anyone," he ordered. "God has led them here for a purpose, and we will abide until His plan is clearer to us."

* * *

"He's hidin' somethin'," Jayne announced quietly after the doors to the Prior's chamber had closed fully.

"What do you mean?" Wash whispered back, quickening his pace to fall in step with the larger man as they followed Brother William to the dining hall. "He's a priest! I'm sure they lose God points for lying."

"Ain't sayin' he's outright lyin', but what he told us back there ain't the whole truth."

"About the camp?" This was not a comforting thought. Most of Wash backed away from it. Only Curiosity, dodging around Dread, edged closer, eager to hear more.

"Dunno, could be that, could be somethin' else. Maybe lots o' preachers is like Book – got they's secrets jus' like the rest o' us. Seems alright otherwise. Strange how he pretended not ta notice yer little freak-out."

"Hey! I thought I held up pretty well."

"Aw hell, Wash!" Jayne replied, then quickly hushed his voice when Brother William looked back with gentle disapproval. "Shoulda seen yerself turnin' ta ash in there. Next time we play Tall Card, jus' save all our time an' gimme yer money at the start. "

With that, Jayne dismissed his concerns for the moment and turned his thoughts to food. Nothin' else ta be done 'less an' until they's more information forthcomin'. All 'n all, he decided, he liked dealin' with holy folk. They's polite an' ain't always tryin' ta kill ya.

_End chapter 3._

* * *

*****Translations and Misc.

_luan yu _– gibberish

_Transubstantiation _– the Roman Catholic doctrine that the bread and wine taken during Communion are transformed into the substance of the body and blood of Christ

_Nicene Creed – _professions of faith most widely used in Christian liturgy

_Catechism – _a summary of doctrine traditionally used in Christian religious education

_Deo adiuvante _– with God's help

_Venite ad me omnes qui laboratis et onerati estis et ego reficiam vos _(Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy burdened, and I will give you rest) – Matthew 11:28


	4. i-wh the wary tread a much-fraught path

**Author's Note:** Yes, yes, I know. I am guilty of severe neglect. It's been almost two years to the day since I last updated this story. I got lost in _Glee_ for a while, until the actual show got so offensive it drove me away. Believe it or not, this story has never been completely out of my thoughts all this time. I'm looking for a new fandom to get enthusiastic about and friends have made some excellent suggestions, including _Sherlock_ and _Dr. Who_. But before I dive into all that, I'm determined to finish this story so Wash and Jayne aren't just left stranded on Haderon for all eternity. I hope the quality of forthcoming chapters doesn't disappoint, but if it does, concrit is always appreciated.

**P.S.** - There's no doubt reviews would be a strong inducement to writing faster, so leave one (or more) if you get a chance. Ella

* * *

**Chapter 4, in which the wary tread a much-fraught path**

_I cried unto God with my voice, even unto God with my voice; and he gave ear unto me - _Psalm 77:1

* * *

Jayne quickly discovered the abbey held hidden dangers.

"Wash!" he hissed urgently the very next day, ducking into the tiny cell they shared, visibly shaken. "We got trouble!"

"Reavers?" Wash asked incredulously. It was the only thing he'd ever seen scare the big man this much.

"Brother Will says I got ta go ta confession! You, too. All of 'em is doin' it. Can't think why," he grumbled. "Ain't a woman in sight an' the men don't seem ta be doin' nothin' on the sly. If there's liquor hereabouts I ain't found it yet, nor anythin' worth stealin'."

"Okay?" Wash replied, the whole word a question mark. Jayne's agitation did not abate. Wash blinked. "I'm missing the problem here."

"I mean I can't figure what _they_ got ta confess. But we got _buckets_, startin' with the fact we's here under false pretenses. What're we gonna do?"

"Well, lie." Obviously. Jayne seemed slower than usual in the brainpan this morning.

"Can't do that! This here's a house o' God." He looked horrified, as though Wash had just suggested he do some unthinkable thing like fight fair in a bar brawl.

"Don't tell me you never lied to Shepherd Book."

"That don't signify." Jayne swatted the notion away with his hand. "That was back on _Serenity_, an' anyway he ain't a full preacher no more, not since he been partakin' in gun battles an' such. But Prior Walter an' Brother Will - they's the real deal." Wash had never seen Jayne so serious. "I know I ain't hardly met a sin I didn't take fer a spin when it suited, but that don't mean I'll flout the Lord in His own house."

Wash was amazed. Who was this man and how had he commandeered Jayne's body? "Okay then, um, we'll just figure out what you're going to say." Jayne waited expectantly, hopefully, but Wash just sat there shaking his head. Take away the thieving and the whoring and the callous spilling of blood that usually filled Jayne's dance card and what the hell was left to confess? Delusions of cognition? Weapons used as tableware? Was callous disregard of others a sin or just laziness?

"Got it!" Wash clapped his hands together in triumph. "Tell him you have lustful thoughts. It's not very original. He probably hears that a lot. But still it ought to be good for some extra wafers or whatever the penance prize is supposed to be. And you don't even have to lie." Wash paled suddenly. He threw Jayne a sharp, scolding look. "But nothing _specific_."

Jayne, whose mind had jumped ahead to the lustful thoughts in question, responded with an evil grin. "An' if he asks?"

"I'm serious, Jayne. _Nothing _specific!"

"Yeah, yeah." The grin remained. "But I betcha he asks. Even a man o' God's got urges if he ain't dead. What 'bout you?"

"Um, sure I get urges, but you learn to control – "

"I mean what ya gonna do fer confession, jackass!" Jayne glowered. Made him want ta punch somethin', how the pilot treated everythin' like a joke.

"Oh. That's simple. I'm going old school – bald-faced and shameless dissembling." He didn't bother waiting for Jayne's _'huh?'_ face. "I'll lie."

* * *

Jayne kinda vaguely remembered from his childhood that they's a pro... a proto... a proper way o' doin' these things. "Er, forgive me Father fer the bad stuff I done." He scowled. That didn't sound right. _Ain't no call ta be nervous, ya damn fool. I mean ya darn fool. Jus' stick ta the script!_

"How long has it been since your last confession, my son?" Prior Walter prompted gently.

"Well," replied Jayne slowly, "it's difficult ta say." Technically true. The Lord knew he was in a tight spot, so Jayne was sure He'd let that one slip by.

They sat facing each other on the hard benches, a plain wooden cross above the doorway the only other feature in the otherwise barren room. It was cold here, just as it was everywhere, every day, and Jayne watched the priest's breath float forward, white little tufts of air advancing on the merc, trustingly eager to embrace the upcoming lies in his own exhales. Prior Walter sat very still, dark eyes focused, mild but steady, on Jayne's face. He seemed to be waiting for something.

Jayne shifted uneasily on the narrow bench. "Guess I'm s'pposed ta keep goin', huh? Well, far as sinin' goes, I reckon lustful thoughts is at the top o' my list."

Prior Walter appeared unimpressed. Disappointed, maybe? _Huh! Guess he really does hear that one a lot. Time ta go ta back up._

"An' I been known ta partake freely o' spirits an' hard liquor. Oh, an' gambling. I done that, too."

If any of this peaked Prior Walter's interest, he wasn't letting on. Jayne began a quiet panic. Clearly he didn't have enough material. Wash's admonition be damned, he grasped for the one subject beside weaponry upon which Jayne knew he could wax grandiloquent. For hours, if need be.

"Those lustful thoughts I mentioned? They's some good stories goes with 'em. Like this one time - "

"Brother Vincent," Prior Walter stopped him, "confession is a means to reflect on ways to better serve God and our fellow beings in this life, and to become more worthy of salvation in the next." He gave the merc a few moments to absorb all that, then added firmly, "What do you consider your worst faults _against others_?"

Gorramit! What _hadn't _J.M. Vincent Cobb, Esquire done 'gainst others? But he didn't consider most o' those things faults at all, let alone sins. They was just part o' work, the job, his profession. 'Tho he expected Bible-bound folks'd see it otherwise.

He looked away from the Prior, eyes wandering to the wooden cross on the wall, the left leg of the bench opposite, the corner of the room where a hardy spider had spun and then abandoned a now half-frozen web. His eyes returned to the unopened black bible on Prior Walter's lap.

This confession business weren't no way suited fer a man like him – a bad man, a man who _liked _bein' bad, doin' evil things for fun and profit. Mostly profit. But surely if God was all-knowin', He understood why that mattered.

And that thought led back to home. "I don't support my family as good as I should. An' I don't write home often enough."

He expected that sounded pretty lame to Prior Walter, a man who'd renounced worldly ties. But the Prior just nodded sympathetically and said not a word.

Jayne became increasingly squirrely under the Prior's mild stare.

He absolutely did not like ta think. Weren't that he was stupid 'cause he weren't, 'tho he knew that was the gen'ral opinion on _Serenity_. He was a man o' action, be it loud an' messy or stealthful an' precise. An' plannin', strategizin' on how ta come outta a scrape alive an' maybe a mite richer, well, it made Jayne feel at home in his skin. Comfortable an' clever, skillful an' smart an' powerful. Men o' action was _real_ men. Sit-down thinkin' was fer weaklings like Wash or dandies like the Doc. Besides, didn't do no good, created too many empty places in his head in need o' fillin'. And sure 'nuf, his body now idle, Jayne began ta remember. Another thing he gen'rally avoided, 'cause some memories called up emotions Jayne very rarely acknowledged that he had. 'Bout his family, yeah, Ma an' Matty an' the others maybe strugglin' 'cause he weren't earnin' enuf. 'Bout the crew on _Serenity_, what they been through together. An' one warm, brown-haired smile in coveralls he sometime imagined waitin' home fer him with flour on her face 'stead o' engine grease, in a proper house 'stead o' a broken down tin can. But that was a very private confession, not fer tellin' the preacher nor anyone else, 'cause it weren't their business an' tellin' wouldn't change nothin' anyways.

He shook his head, defeated, and said apologetically, "I don't know what more I can say, Father, an' that's the truth."

The Prior regarded Jayne for a long moment. His face softened and he seemed to be seeing right through the burly gun hand to something on the other side and far back in time. "Brother Vincent, I know more than you think about the life you've come from. I understand it's hard to lay bare our faults before others. But everyone needs someone to confide in. You're struggling with a great weight, I can tell. _More_ than one, if I'm not mistaken. Consider this a chance to let me, let God, share some of the burden. I promise you, nothing you say goes beyond this room."

It was pin-drop quiet. Jayne frowned hard at his feet and hunched his shoulders. He didn't wanna look at the priest no more, didn't want to see those bright eyes beamin' gentle support. Jayne never know'd how ta cope with kindness when it come his way; seemed wrong somehow, like it didn't belong in his life. But even without knowin' the man, Jayne sensed the Prior was prepared ta sit there through all eternity (leastwise through dinner) waiting fer Jayne ta hold forth with somethin' more considerable.

_This is Hell! That gorram Shepherd done led me ta Hell! _The real one, the Hell o' the here an' now, not the one they scare children with ta make 'em behave. An' them pictures got it all wrong – weren't no devil on a throne breathin' fire an' smoke, burnin' all the lost souls as they's drownin' in the boilin' sea ferever. Hell was a cold place where thoughts got inta yer head an' hung there frozen 'n stubborn, like that spider web in the corner.

Jayne decided he'd best speak up so's not to risk blowin' their cover as penitents. Maybe tellin' jus' this one li'l thing couldn't hurt if he was careful what he said. So Jayne let hisself follow those thoughts (in a right chaste way, mind) 'bout them coveralls, an' the pretty li'l curvy figure underneath, an' the sweet, heart-shaped face with the warm, brown smile and jus' pure kindness fer a soul. An' the pasty-faced, uppity li'l piss ant got most o' them smiles sent his way.

"I get jealous o' what other folks's got," he said finally. "'Specially when they's bein' handed somethin' they don't appreciate an' ain't done nothin' ta earn. An' I don't take it kindly when they look down on me on account o' not havin' proper lernin' an' manners an' such. An' I ain't always so patient as I should be with folks got troubles o' their own and can't help being _fong luh_ an' irritatin'."

"Ah, you're speaking of your relationship with Brother Robert," Prior Walter smiled.

"Yeah, him too."

The air seemed to tingle with silence. Realizing he'd slumped to a near crouch, Jayne straightened up and cleared his throat. Still, fancy pants an' his crazy sister didn't deserve what the Alliance was gonna do ta them if they was caught.

Jayne couldn't explain it but somethin' 'bout the way Prior Walter was lookin' at him all open-like and commiseratin' made him feel a pressure in his chest, like somethin' painful was pushin' ta get out an' he couldn't shake the feelin' that if he jus' got it out there, he'd feel ... lighter somehow.

But Jayne really wasn't used to deep introspection so he sat there for a long while trying to puzzle out in his mind just what _'it'_ was, until finally his mouth ran out of patience. "There's been times I betrayed the trust people put in me. I reckon that's the worst thing I ever done, Father, turned against folks who looked ta me fer better."

"Now _that_, Brother Vincent, is a sin worth confessing. Let's talk about that."

_End chapter 4._


	5. in which doubt assails the doubtful

**Author's Note: **I'm back again, fellow Browncoats! Mine eyes have seen the glory and the story marches on.

* * *

**Chapter 5, in which doubt assails the doubtful**

_And among these nations shalt thou find no ease, neither shall the sole of thy foot have rest: but the Lord shall give thee there a trembling heart, and failing of eyes, and sorrow of mind: And thy life shall hang in __doubt__ before thee; and thou shalt fear day and night_ - Deuteronomy 28:65-66

* * *

**_Un__._**

Wash contemplated how kindred he felt to the humble prefix as he bent his hooded head against the cold and trudged from the barren cloisters to the lush, humid greenhouse complex. _Un – _as in: _Un_acceptable. Referring, of course, to the _Un_bearable, _Un_endurable and_Un_amusing situation he _Un_expectedly found himself most _Un_comfortably in.

**_In_** was good too, he decided upon reflection. Since Jayne's company was _In_sufferable. Table manners – _In_credible! Personal hygiene – _In_supportable. Maturity level – _In_fantile. Intellect – _In_finitesimal. Consideration for his _Un_happy shipmate – _In_discernible. Ha-ha, a twofer!

Wash opened the door to the large inner dome where the strong smell of damp earth and leafy growing things filled his nostrils. Another day of gardening misadventures had begun.

An object of the herbaceous persuasion was waived in front of him. "This is basil, Brother, it is _not_ a weed," Brother Will advised firmly, trying to head off a repeat of yesterday's unfortunate incident with the rosemary.

Wash tried, he really tried to concentrate on the gardening, but he was a man with a full mind and a gangrene thumb.

_Of course_ the 'pilgrims' were sharing a cell. Brother Xi was in charge of the abbey's sleeping arrangements and keeping the newcomers together obviously made them easier to keep his suspicious eye upon. This gave Wash a front row seat for the nightly Jayne Show. The opening act was a teaser, consisting of a series long, loud, plaintive yawns (mouth uncovered, naturally). This was followed by the warm-up routine – 50 push-ups, 60 stomach crunches and 10 minutes of fancy footwork with a jump rope improvised from cassock belts. For the main event Jayne spent 20-30 minutes shadow boxing, and though he tried to ignore the rest, this Wash watched with frank amazement. Despite his bulk, Jayne moved remarkably fast. There was almost a grace to his rhythmic, fluid motions as he dodged and weaved and jabbed. Whatever goodwill Jayne built up while cycling through his combinations came crashing down, however, in the closing act, where the mercenary stretched and scratching himself leisurely. And liberally, much to his cellmate's embarrassment. Wash added two more words to his list of complaints – _In_appropriately _Un_inhibited.

"Brother Robert, watch where you're - !" Brother Will sighed. "Right, no tomatoes for tonight's salad, then."

Not that Wash abstained from self-pleasuring. He just preferred to be more subtle. Laying in bed at night in the tiny, cheerless cell, growing ever more crowded as the _In'__s_ and _Un'__s_ piled up, Wash would turn to the wall, slip his hand inside his robe and very quietly give himself over to memories of his glorious warrior wife in various moments of passion, involving a multitude of positions and degrees of undress. Yeah yeah, consecrated ground and all that, but at least he was thinking of the woman to whom he was _married_, so this was church-sanctioned pornography. And anyway, if there was a god watching, wasn't that voyeurism? Now there's a conundrum for god – ignore the sin or be a pervert!

"Pull by the roots, Brother, by the roots. Here, let me do it."

Not all his Zoe thoughts were conjugal in nature. Sometimes, to fight off sleep while mumbling his way through endless services with mind-numbing chants and recitations, Wash imagined their aborted anniversary dinner, how she would have smiled indulgently when he gave her the intricately carved wooden bracelet and explained that wood was the traditional gift for the fifth anniversary, and then she'd have teased him in that dry, wry way of hers about how he was such an easy mark for any _cong-ming_ merchant spinning a tale of supposed Earth-that-Was customs and he would proudly proclaim himself a helpless romantic.

Or perhaps just helpless.

They'd been there three days and still Wash made no move to visit (although "_visit"_ implied a degree of free will and eagerness that was totally absent here) Alliance Enemy Combatant Detention Facility Number 8. "DF 8" Eddie and the other monks called it, when it wasn't 'the camp' or 'the museum.'

DF 8 – the place sounded harmless enough in abbreviation. And 'museum' seemed positively benign. The antithesis of a POW camp where 100 prisoners died every day from beatings and exposure and lack of … everything.* Museums were civilized, each item neatly categorized, labeled and edifying. But no mere name could obscure the fact that starving for knowledge and simply starving were two entirely different things.

"Edwin," Brother Will called softly, "maybe Brother Robert should try something that doesn't involve actually _touching_ the vegetables?" Taking the shovel Brother Edwin proffered, Wash started hoeing aimlessly in the vicinity of some nervous potatoes.

He should at least _ask_ Brother Will which of the other 45 or so monks was Brother Geoffrey. The tall, pruney looking one with the lazy eye who hated green tea? Or maybe the short, willowy one who was too quick to smile and had impossibly white teeth? The blonde whose hair trailed down his back in a long braid? Out of context, did evil have an obvious face? When Saffron had played the sweet, naïve, slightly bewildered little prairie waif, she'd been an attractive woman who cooked a mean _bao_. But a kick in the head and a couple of double crosses later, all Wash could see was someone he was proud to call his wife's punching bag.

Wash glanced around to make sure no one was watching and reached under his robe, this time his hand traveling upwards to touch the wedding ring that hung on a long, slender cord around his neck. Wash knew he shouldn't risk drawing the attention – the cord was strong and well-fastened, so of course the ring was still there. Just like the red, orange and green print shirt that was also hidden under his robe, keeping the memory of color alive in this drab, achromatic world. That tiny, cheap disc was a precious lifeline to everything Wash wanted back as soon as possible and he had to keep it safe, so he only reached for it very occasionally, which is to say just a couple of times a day. Okay, maybe several times a day, but not every hour. Oh, it _was_ every hour? Well, it wasn't his fault he lost track of time during those endless services. _Tsao gao_, this place was boring! With a holy, righteous life as the alternative, no wonder temptation was so ... tempting.

Which brought to mind a question – why wasn't Jayne bored, too? This place was changing the merc, although Wash didn't understand how or why. Wash didn't want to change, thank you very much. It unsettled him to see the uncharacteristically subdued Jayne Cobb who had returned from confession. And he couldn't fathom what Thick Brain and Brother Will spent so much time talking about each day.

As if on cue, Jayne came lumbering through the lettuce patch, a brace of rabbits, foxes and some animal Wash didn't recognize slung over his shoulder. Unsurprisingly, _Serenity's_ resident mouth-breather was a crack shot but a lazy sonofabitch, and usually finished his hunting after an hour or so, always careful to bring back a respectable cache of small game and fowl. After that, the merc would stalk the greenhouse regaling their unfortunate protectors with violent, self-justifying tales of The Squandered Life and Misspent Times of J.M. Vincent Cobb, Esquire.

After waiting patiently for Jayne to finish recounting how he'd once jumped onto a moving train to steal medicine from sick people (which, in an uncharacteristic display of good judgment, he described simply as "Alliance stuff"), Brother William picked up a brimming basket of cucumbers. "I'm going to the kitchen, brothers." After a moment's thought, he added with a slightly harder edge in his voice, "Please, Brother Robert, don't prune anything while I'm gone."

Brother Edwin watched his uncle's form retreat until the older man was long gone. He cleared his throat self-consciously. "Brother Robert?" Wash turned to face him. Brother Edwin looked at his feet and fidgeted with the end of his fraying belt, apparently unsure how his next sentence would be received. "What's it like being married? Having a woman take care of you, cook and clean and tend to your needs? And… and the rest," he finished shyly.

"Oh! Well...um," Wash began uncertainly, "every marriage is different, of course. Mine is maybe more different than some."

Jayne snorted loudly. "Yer asking the wrong fella, Eddie. She's got his_ gao wan_ in a vice."

Wash glared at Jayne. "Don't you have things to shoot?" The merc just raised his eyebrows and smirked knowlingly.

Brother Edwin's eyes went wide at hearing the profanity. Then an image must have come to mind because he suddenly flushed brighter than the beets. "I'll just ... um... peppers... kitchen" he mumbled as he grabbed a basket and hurried away.

"No stop wait," Wash said flatly and without conviction, "I didn't tell him the best part – marital guilt! The kind that comes from telling your wife she's being selfish just because she won't revisit the planet where she endured god knows what horrific ordeal."

"Aw, yer makin' too gorram much of it. 'S natural couples is gonna fight."

"Oh, and you know this from your vast experience with rent-by-the-hour brides?" Wash shot back tartly.

Jayne shrugged and stood. "Before my pa left, he used ta beat Ma regular." Wash looked up sharply into Jayne's face, but found there neither bitterness nor exaggeration. Jayne leaned towards him and dropped his voice. "Just between us, Zoe ever hit ya?"

"No!" Wash gasped, visibly shaken by the question.

Jayne gave one deliberate nod. "Well. There, see."

"See _what_? What are you talking about?"

"As annoying as ya are, that woman's gotta have a powerful amount o' love not ta hurt ya even a li'l."

Wash just gaped at him for a minute. "You seriously think the measure of a good marriage is whether husband and wife are slugging away at each other?"

"Nah." Jayne shrugged again and began sorting the spoils of his hunt. "But it's one sure sign of a bad one."

For Wash, Vespers and Compline passed in a fog. _Monkey snot on a cracker! _Sure, he eschewed all that macho _tsway-niou_ about being so tough he could sew his own arm back on with a toothpick and dental floss after killing six cyborg soldiers in hand-to-hand combat. He was a lover, not a fighter, nothing wrong with that. It didn't make him any less of a man, as evidenced by the very - repeat, _very -_ satisfied warrior woman who took him to her bed every night. But _kao!_ Did he really seem so weak and submissive that he'd let someone - _anyone_ - abuse him and not fight back? As for Jayne, Wash always knew Mr. Swing-First-and-Ask-Questions-Never had nothing but contempt for him, no surprise there. But now he realized he was being held _beneath_ said contempt, in contempt's cellar, as it were! _That_ was insulting!

Did Zoe think...? No, she couldn't! Could she? She wouldn't stay with a man as pathetic as Jayne believed him to be. But here he was, acting pretty gorram pathetic, hiding from her past, cowering in a stupid vegetable garden when the truth was just ten frozen kilometers away. Resenting that she concealed all these years what he was now too _dan qie_ to face. Was it unfair, a dodge, to put the burden of telling the story entirely on her, now that he was in a position to learn some of it for himself? Hell, she'd lived it, survived it, and here he was unable to just go _look_ at the place?

That night Wash didn't watch Jayne's shadow boxing. That night, all night, he lay on the narrow cot, gazing out the little cell window. That night, all night, he clutched his ring and stared up at the Black.

At breakfast the next morning, as the monks shuffled along the chow line, he murmured quietly to Brother William, "So which one is Geoffrey?"

_End chapter 5._

* * *

**Additional A/N:** I'm not sure this chapter is entirely up to snuff, but hopefully it's not a complete disappointment. (Low expectations - an author's best friend!)

* In case you were wondering, DF-8 is modeled on Elmira, the notorious Union prison where 25% of all Confederate soldiers held there died of starvation, disease and abuse during the American Civil War. It seemed a fitting analogy, since Joss fancied the conflict between Browncoats and Alliance as akin to that bloody and bitter chapter in American history. Elmira's much more famous and infamous Confederate counterpart was Andersonville, where conditions were even harsher. Today Andersonville is home to the National Prisoner of War Museum. Sadly, these are but two of the many, many DF-8s on Earth-that-Was.


End file.
